Our chapter decided to do a 5K together as a fundraiser for a local shelter. I want to be clear: I am not a runner. I am a person who drives past runners and wonders what their damage is. But I signed up because my small group did, and I didn't want to be the one who bailed. Mile one was fine. Mile two I started negotiating with God. Mile three I was having a full theological conversation in my head about whether suffering builds character or if this was just bad decision-making. I finished in 34 minutes, which is not impressive. But crossing that line with my group cheering — some of them waiting at the finish having already finished ten minutes earlier — I felt something I don't have a better word for than joy. Not happiness. Joy. The kind that exists alongside burning lungs and jelly legs. Philippians 4:13 has never made more sense to me than it did at mile 2.7.
